


to love is to tell the story of the world

by allicanseeispink



Series: the warm weather is holding [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Gen, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, Mostly Gen, POV Outsider, Post-Time Skip, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allicanseeispink/pseuds/allicanseeispink
Summary: Akinori considered cancelling. If he told everyone, they’d understand. No one would rib him about it, even if they could only meet once every three months now, if that.He wouldn’t have needed to think about going, had his girlfriend of two years not broken up with him last night.(Konoha gets dumped, goes out with his friends, and shares some fieldnotes on heartbreak and forgetting.)Updated with CH 2: CODA - Bokuto walks home with Akaashi and wonders at Tokyo's secrets.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, past Konoha Akinori/Original Female Character
Series: the warm weather is holding [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818181
Comments: 67
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part character study, part friendship genfic, part BokuAka outsider POV. 
> 
> This is an interlude in my [BokuAka series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818181), and tackles the same themes as [wisdom (perception) check](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25729189) from the other end. You don't have to know any of that for it to make sense, though.

“It is not as if,” the philosopher writes, “an I exists  
independently over here and then simply loses a you over there.”

— Nomi Stone, _On World-Making_

  
  


Akinori considered cancelling. If he told everyone, they’d understand. No one would rib him about it, even if they could only meet once every three months now, if that. Yukie, noted astrology fiend, liked to attribute all good things to the stars aligning, but even trickier than that was scheduling a night out between eight working adults. 

Komi suggested another reunion in April. They were all amenable, but their schedules were not. Nothing fundamentally changed about Akinori when he became an adult, except that his time and everyone else’s became gridlocked in leather-bound planners and Google calendars down to the smallest sliver. To meet each other again, they each had to find a box with no callback auditions, volleyball matches, team meeting-dinners, or goddamn conference calls to San Francisco written across it, all eight of them. April gave way to May, then June, and only then was everyone free on a Friday night. Tonight.

He wouldn’t have needed to think about going, had his girlfriend of two years not broken up with him last night. She invited him over to her apartment to do it. Or maybe she invited him over to her apartment _and_ did it; maybe it just happened, with no causal intent between one and the other. She didn’t do it easily, either. It wasn’t a quick, clean break. The cut was jagged and festering, done with a dull scalpel over hours and hours of arguing before they finally pulled apart. 

It was exhausting. They moved around her studio apartment for a change of scenery every hour. They argued about her expectations of him to propose sitting across from each other on her couch. They argued about his alleged apathy about her difficulties at work sitting across from each other at her small, two-person dining table. They had to talk over the bouquet of pink long stem roses he’d sent her on Tuesday, deposited in a vase on the table. They argued about moving in together on the way to and back from the Family Mart seven minutes from her apartment to buy microwave meals for dinner, once they both realized they wouldn’t get any cooking done.

She finally broke up with him in front of her single window, cracked open to let the weak breeze inside on a humid night. They’d both sweated through their shirts and talked themselves hoarse by the end. He left her place near midnight and ran to the station to catch the last train home.

In the morning, he felt as if he’d lost a limb he didn’t even know he had. He looked at himself in the mirror pulling on his plaid shirt for casual Friday and wondered where the open wound would be in his body, if it were literal. Maybe a large gash right across his chest, deep enough that people passing him on the street could peek at his white sternum and avert their eyes in disgust. Theoretically, if they could see through his clothes. It hurt in a way that surprised him, even if he’d been dumped before. But he had work, so he buttoned his buttons, stuffed an umbrella in his bag, slipped into his shoes, and walked to the office. His apartment was company-provided, so it was only a 15-minute walk. 

At the end of the work day, as he hung his lab coat back in his locker, he entertained the idea of cancelling. But he’d always been stubborn. Something about dropping a text in the group chat an hour before, after they’d all moved their schedules around to make it work, reeked of ceding ground to... he didn’t know what. To Emi? To the gash on his chest? To his fear of _not_ being a functioning adult? He sent, _I’m on my way,_ to the group chat instead.

He needed to take two trains to Shinagawa, because they let Akaashi and Bokuto choose the place, and they always chose the same izakaya near their condo. It was rush hour. The seats on the train were folded up to pack as many people in as possible and zoom them across the city to whatever they had planned for the night. It was comforting, being lost in the shuffle of people. Salarymen in work suits had slipped off their jackets and rolled up the sleeves of their smart dress shirts to ward off the June humidity. The OLs had slipped off their heels in favor of either walkable, nondescript flats or even fancier, higher heels. Friday night and the coming weekend was ripe with promise for all of them. 

Akinori was pressed right against the window, his arm stretched to hang on to a safety handle, which he didn’t need to do as he’d long acquired Tokyo subway legs, but he still liked to, for the peace of mind. He saw himself and his bleeding gash reflected on the window glass enclosed by the crowd. He was nobody here, just one of 14 million people in the city. He found a piece of himself again, in that awareness. When he stepped off to Shinagawa station, it felt like the entire city had congregated to flock it's shops and walkways, and he had to squeeze past them all as he rushed to the exit. Lost among them, he almost felt nothing, like his open wound had momentarily cauterized. 

  
  


The izakaya was a matchbox, tiny and warm. It was tucked into a narrow side street that felt like a scene in what his mother wistfully called old Tokyo, small businesses with storefronts that had apartments on the second floor. On days when it didn’t rain, there were tables and chairs out in the street. But it was June in Tokyo. The sky was pouring and had been since late afternoon, although it was the good, noncommittal rain, far from a drizzle but not emboldened by strong enough winds to defy human means of staying dry. 

The conveniently placed basket by the izakaya’s entrance held five folded umbrellas. The only seating inside were stools around the U-shaped bar that could fit maybe 10 people if they didn’t mind squeezing together, but tonight had to fit eight from one group, so Bokuto had reserved the place just for them. There was a sign on the door that said, ‘CLOSED, Reserved for Fukurodani VBC 2011-2012.’ 

Akinori was seated right in the middle of the U, idly running his fingers in circles on top of the bar, feeling the varnished wooden grain under his fingers. A work day and six sips of beer later, he still hadn’t told anyone about his breakup. _It’s the atmosphere,_ he decided. His problem was the atmosphere. If he told them tonight, he’d break something, just like he would have broken something earlier at work in the 20 minutes his team had to eat lunch before they had to publish a white paper of the results of the drug trial they’d been working on for 14 months. In the izakaya, the vibe was picking up before the night even got going, his friends and their shared cache of banter and inside jokes as familiar to him as a reddened wrist from hitting too many spikes. 

“I can’t believe he’s late,” grumbled Komi, who had a beer froth mustache. “I took a cab and everything.” He’d been the first to arrive and was a little smug about it. 

Washio snorted and said, “Did you take a cab to not be late, or did you take a cab because it’s raining?” Washio also had a beer, though his was still nearly full. 

“Yeah, okay, _details,_ ” answered Komi as he reached for napkins from a holder branded for Asahi beer that had a TV actor’s smiling face on it, though Akinori couldn’t quite remember which show he’d seen him on. 

“We set up a 10 minute grace period rule last time, remember,” said Kaori, ever efficient. She already had a full glass of cold sake in front of her inside an equally full _masu,_ though she had yet to take a sip. She and Yukie arrived together under a large umbrella, and they were seated beside each other now. 

“Well he has four minutes until he pays for everything,” said Sarukui, looking down at his watch. He also had a beer, a deeper-toned one with a pinkish tint that the proprietress behind the bar said was a peach-flavored craft beer from Hokkaido. 

“He’ll offer to pay even if he isn’t late,” said Yukie with a smile, though her eyes were trained on her half-empty peach beer. “Kobayashi-san,” she said, her voice sing-songy, addressing the proprietress, “This beer is _excellent._ ” She got a smile and a bow in response. 

Because Bokuto Koutarou was born a showman, he emerged from the sliding door right then, as if on cue. He greeted, “Hey hey hey!” as soon as he got his head inside. “I’m _not late,_ we put a 10-minute rule last time for Sarukui last time!” His hair was down and damp, and his MSBY team jacket was wet on the shoulders, with splatters on his back.

“Hey,” whined Sarukui, “That wasn’t _for_ me, I’m not late all the time okay. I’m sorry the Ministry of Interior asked me to do overtime.”

“Why is your hair down?” asked Akinori, looking at Bokuto. Puzzling out his friend was familiar ground to him, a routine he’d sharpened longer than he’d ever been dumped. 

Bokuto, who was shrugging off his jacket to hang on the discreet coat rack pressed against the left wall of the space, grinned and said, “I didn’t style it today at all. I thought I’d probably forget an umbrella, so if I leave my hair down to begin with, it’s okay if I do and Akaashi won’t get mad at me for running under the rain because he won’t be able to tell that I didn’t use an umbrella, from my hair.” 

Sometimes he said things aloud that made Akinori hear Wii loading music from nowhere, as if the universe itself needed a minute to catch up. He watched Bokuto make his way to one of the two empty seats left on the right side of the U from the door, oblivious to his own weirdness. Akinori thought, _Gods bless you._

“Why didn’t you just remember to bring an umbrella?” asked Sarukui, in a tone that suggested maybe he heard the music, too. 

A peach beer had materialized in front of Bokuto before he even said anything, so he took a sip, and then replied, “Well, I tried to, I set up an alarm on my phone with a notif and everything. But when my alarm rang as I was about to leave, Captain called me about something, so it slipped my mind when I left the condo, and I didn’t realize I was umbrella-less until I was already in the cab.” 

The narrow street it was on meant even by cab, the izakaya could only be reached by walking from the intersection to its entrance. Bokuto, just like he said, evidently ran under the rain.

“But,” broached Kaori, “wouldn’t that only work if Akaashi’d already seen you with your hair down?” Akaashi had earlier given the heads up that he was going to be at least an hour and a half late, coming from work. 

“I sent him a selfie before I left the condo.”

Silence was the only correct response. _Like the meme goes,_ thought Akinori, _his fucking mind._

“Umm, I’m going to need a drink after that,” said Komi, speaking for everyone.

“Great, I’m treating tonight,” replied Bokuto, benevolent and guileless. “I have _really, really_ exciting news to share, but I have to wait for Akaashi to get here.”

Yukie shot a meaningful glance across the bar to Sarukui, who shrugged. Then her peach beer was refilled, and Kaori and Komi both had second glasses placed in front of them both, also of peach beer. 

Akinori considered ordering a glass too. But the sweet peach mixed with the yeasty aroma of beer reminded him of Emi. He looked at Komi’s glass of peach beer beside his plain one now. It was odd how ordinary objects could be wallpapered with memory. He wondered how long it would be until peach beer was just peach beer again.

“Okay, me first,” said Washio. They did a round of life updates every time they met up. “It’s the off-season, so I’ll be quick. Nothing’s been happening much. I’m working out a lot, I did some media interviews, one for _Volleyball Monthly._ ” Impressed murmurs went around at this because none of them ever outgrew their teenage awe toward the magazine, even if Bokuto's had four covers over the years. 

Washio continued, “My mom’s been bugging me to go on dates more or she’d take me to marriage interviews. My teammate Komori signed me up for an online dating site and made me a profile on a dating app.” He said this matter-of-factly, like he was reading the percentage of humidity in Tokyo on the weather app. 

“ _What?_ ” said Komi, vehement. “We’re just turning 25 this year!”

“I know right,” said Yukie, hand over her chest. “And mentally, I feel like I’m still 18, to be honest. I’m only really 24 in the brief moments when I do great things, like wash and dry all my large comforters by myself, no help, in the coin laundry across the street from my apartment.” 

“Yukie, you should really just buy a washing machine,” said Sarukui. “I mean, I haven’t done the math, but the initial expense should be worth not having to take loads of laundry down five flights of stairs.”

“I don’t take _loads_ of laundry down,” replied Yukie. “I take _a_ load. I do my laundry every Sunday, okay, which is another thing I feel 24 about.”

“Maybe that’s Washio’s mom’s minimum qualification for marriage,” joked Sarukui. “If it is, I sure don’t qualify.” 

“I mean, it’s been a minute since Aomame-san, right?” said Kaori, looking at Washio with a frown. Aomame was Washio’s last ex, and a minute was maybe nine months ago. She continued, “But still, marriage interviews are drastic. People get married at 28 to 35 these days.”

“Wait,” said Bokuto, “There are apps for dating now?” 

“Tinder,” answered Washio.

Bokuto let out a loud “ _Oh!_ ” in recognition. “I know that one! Tsum-tsum always calls it a hook-up app, though, so I got confused.” 

*

On their first date, Takizawa Emi, with a little laugh, said, “To be honest, when you said you were from Fukurodani too, I was so relieved. Finally, someone I have at least one thing in common with.” Akinori had an inkling then, that he’d fall in love with her.

He matched with Emi on Tinder in his first few months out of college. 

His lucky, frictionless transition from being a stressed college senior to a green pharmaceutical company employee was a magic time. Yukie said then that the stars were aligning for him. He moved out of his parents’ house and into the company apartments even before the graduation ceremony. He went through an intense KonMari clear out of his room in his last semester. His only possessions left to pack were his clothes, his collection of volleyball jerseys from high school and college, somehow separate from clothes in his mind, and a brand new microwave from his grandma. She correctly foresaw it would take him a while to learn how to cook for himself properly. For the three weeks it took him to learn, he supplemented his burnt, oddly seasoned attempts with the array of ready-made meals in microwave-safe packaging from the Lawson across the street. He bought the chicken teriyaki bento enough that the employee who stocked the open coolers let him know as soon as he entered if it was in stock. 

Love was the only misalignment. His first long term relationship collapsed after graduation, like there was something about them that couldn’t take root outside the immediate context of going to the same classes and heading the chemistry honors society together. He was devastated, so he mimed being _casual,_ swiping right and right and right on Tinder while swigging vodka seltzers from Lawson alone in his apartment after work. Their messages were impersonal but honest, no _where did you study_ or _what do you do’s,_ only _I’m free on Saturday night._ It was a relief to spend his weekends in other peoples’ apartments, seeing the incomplete 23 volumes of _Naruto_ on the shelf, or the unwashed dishes left on the sink, or the framed best thesis award, and know none of this was information he’d have to remember. All he had to do was kiss and touch and keep kissing, until hands roamed. 

Emi messaged him first. _You look familiar,_ she said. He wondered briefly if it was a pick-up line, until she sent a second message, _Did you play volleyball in high school?_ Then a third one, _I went to Fukurodani and my friend played on the volleyball team too._ The friend was Akaashi. They’d grown close after Akinori and the other third years had gone off to college, and Bokuto to the V. League, and left their kouhai to assemble a new team. He still felt a twinge of guilt about that, so he warmed to Emi quickly, knowing she was there for his friend. They chatted for a week and a half until he realized that maybe she wanted a date. So he asked.

He told Akaashi about the date, of course. He called him before he asked her out. All Akaashi said was, “Emi loves pizza. And I love her. I love you, too.” Akinori wondered what that meant. _Was that a threat? A pointed reminder?_ Akaashi had a way of compressing meaning into simple words that he never got good at deciphering. Then he heard Bokuto grumble, “You love _who_? Who is that?” over the phone, and Akaashi’s laugh. 

When they met in Roppongi that weekend outside a fancy pizza place for lunch, Emi was wearing a short, black minidress embroidered with cherries all around, an oversized denim jacket thrown over her shoulders. He remembered so vividly how her dress ended on her upper thigh, shorter than where her middle finger aligned when her arms were rested at her sides. He’d learn later that she had a small vertical scar on her left thigh partially hidden by the skirt. She was pulling the hem down, and said, “I spent two hours choosing what to wear and I think I still chose wrong,” apologetic, instead of greeting him.

So Akinori replied, “Don’t apologize to me. You look amazing.”

She smiled and released a sigh, like he’d passed a test. Then she said, “Good, ‘cause I already decided last night that I like you.” She let go of the hem of her dress.

Three months into dating, she called him on a Friday night, distressed about a subpar job evaluation. “Sorry for being a pain,” she said over the phone, after she’d finished letting out steam. “I think I just want a drink, but I don’t feel like going out.” 

The love drunk part of his brain had taken that as a personal challenge to scour Tokyo for her favorite Horoyoi peach beer. He showed up an hour later at her doorstep with a full box, 12 cans in all. He nearly elbowed a middle aged street food stall owner for it at the grocery store. 

“What do you need that many for?” the woman asked as soon as he possessively wound both arms around the box. 

“They’re for my girlfriend,” were the actual words he said aloud.

Emi laughed when she saw the box as soon as she opened the door. They both had a warm can each because she didn’t have ice in her fridge, and they were impatient. They sat on the floor, their backs against the couch. 

He could remember the pop of the tab and fizz of the beer when they opened their cans at the same time. It tasted as it always did, of white peaches, but that night it was somehow sweeter. 

She leaned on his shoulder and whispered, “I decided just now that I love you.” 

*

They were all at least three drinks deep, and Sarukui was mid-story about how he’d started texting his project partner for the town halls in Shibuya ward on low income housing about all things but low-income housing, when Akaashi finally arrived. A minor racket erupted, all of them greeting him at once. 

Akaashi entered with two umbrellas, one drenched from the rain that had yet to stop. That one he shook out by the door, folded, and dropped in the basket. The other umbrella was dry. It was the transparent kind from a combini and looked brand new. He propped it against the wall beside the basket before walking to the empty seat beside Bokuto. He pressed a kiss on top of his boyfriend's head before he sat down. 

In the Family Mart last night, the rack of transparent umbrellas by the register was nearly empty, except for one. It took up the entire rack by itself, leaned diagonally. Akinori stared at it while he was in line for the register. 

“I’ll pay,” he’d said, gesturing for Emi to stack her gyudon bento on top of his unagi don one. 

She stared at him for a second, her jaw clenched. “I’m fine,” she replied, before slotting into the line behind him. 

There were a lot of people in front, including a group of drunk college students who seemed to have raided the entire Calbee section. The barcode reader beeped to the the rhythm of the cashier’s efficient workflow. Akinori kept looking ahead, at the umbrella.

“What’d I miss?” asked Akaashi in his usual monotone, a cold sake and a plate of momo yakitori already waiting in front of him as he settled into his seat. 

“Sarukui is maybe getting a girlfriend,” answered Washio, more talkative now as he always was the more he drank. 

“Why do you have two umbrellas?” asked Yukie, already into her second cup of warm sake and second serving of potato salad.

Akaashi took a long sip. Then he said, “I figured Bokuto left his umbrella and walking home will be faster than waiting for a cab, if this rain won’t let up.” Beside him, Bokuto grinned, drunk on peach beer, sake, and the pleasure of being loved by someone. “But I want to hear more about this girlfriend.” 

Sarukui blushed. “She’s not a girlfriend yet! We’re just talking.”

Kaori, looking devious, said, “But he said earlier he thinks they’re _compatible_.”

“My ex told me that we weren’t compatible before she broke up with me,” Washio complained. “I’ve been wondering since then what that even _means._ ”

Yukie, excited, said, “I read about this in _Lassy_! Something about compatibility means you think of love the same way.”

Komi seemed to deeply consider this, pausing his drinking, beer glass held aloft in his hand. “Think of love the same way? As in answer the question ‘what is love?’ the same?”

“That’s kind of weird first date conversation, right?” asked Sarukui, though his joking tone was absent for once. “Hey, can you define love for me?”

Bokuto, his face already flushed, asked, “What _is_ love?”

Emi asked Akinori the same question last night. They were both crying then, when she threw it out. “Is this what love is? Should it be _this hard_?” 

It wasn’t raining. It was humid outside, and intolerably hot in her studio apartment. They had to call a ceasefire so he could drag her sliding window open to let a breeze in. Her lace curtains flew up, and he remembered so distinctly looking at her crouched down, sobbing into her hands, through the delicate, lattice flowers of the lace. They were only meters apart, but he couldn’t fathom how to close the distance.

Akaashi, momo yakitori skewer in hand, laughed and said, “So we’re already in that phase of the night out, I see.”

Akinori’s palms warmed. So he asked, “No, but really. What do you think love is?

A meaningful silence fell among them. Akinori considered walking his question back with a joke, but Yukie hmmed thoughtfully, like she used to when she figured out the answer to a calculus problem.

She said, “That’s easy! Love is just wanting to take care of each other. Seeing someone and thinking, I hope we both eat good food today.”

Sarukui, always quick to pick up a joke, smirked and asked, “Anyone have a similar answer? Now’s the perfect time to confess to Yukie and prove your compatibility.”

Kaori, her tone sincere, said, “Well, my answer is easy, too. Love is appreciation. I love someone because I’m grateful they exist.”

Last night, forlorn and drenched in sweat, Akinori answered, “This _is_ love, Emi. Working through is love. Riding the tide together is still love.”

Tonight, with only a sip of beer left in his glass, he said, “Love is a thought in your head that doesn’t make sense, but your heart tells you to go along with it. You don’t think, you just _do._ ”

Komi grinned at him. “Wow, don’t fear the irrational coming from the man who wears a lab coat everyday.”

“I haven’t thought about it too hard, honestly,” said Washio. “Love is just liking someone more than anyone else, wanting to make them smile so much you'd do anything.”

Kaori smiled kindly and said, “Maybe your ex thought about it all the time, and that’s why you weren’t compatible.”

Yukie quipped, “It must be true if it’s on _Lassy._ ” Then she turned to their friend and asked, “What about you, Komi?”

Komi polished off the last of his beer, put his glass down, and said, “Look, I’ve memorized lines about love this and that too many times for words to move me anymore. When you know, you know.”

Sarukui, probably deflecting from answering himself, said, “But why are we asking each other when we have a test case for the _Lassy_ hypothesis right here? Akaashi?”

“Love is finding the person who’s genuinely interested in the details of your day,” said Akaashi, turning to look at Bokuto with a small smile. “I lost my lucky paperclip today. They stopped serving crab and corn soup on Mondays in the cafeteria. My boss wears cologne, but only on Thursdays.”

“‘Finding the person’?” asked Yukie. “So you believe in fate?”

“I think I might have answered differently a few years ago,” replied Akaashi, “But privately, I always have.” He had the courtesy to look embarrassed.

Komi turned to Bokuto and asked, “Do _you_ believe in fate?”

“Nah,” he replied. 

Komi clapped his hands together, like a team lead ending a long back and forth at a meeting. “There you go, hypothesis debunked. Try again next time, _Lassy._ ”

“Hang on,” Akinori heard himself say. His heart was pounding. “But what is love to you then, Bokuto?”

Bokuto slapped both his hands on his cheeks, chasing sobriety. It made Yukie laugh. Then suddenly serious, he said, “Love is choices and compromises. You make good choices together, and defend your common ground with compromises. That’s it.”

“That’s so mature,” said Kaori. “Bokuto _two-point-oh_ is really something else.” Bokuto beamed at the praise. 

“Yours and Konoha’s answers feel mixed up somehow,” said Washio, seemingly deep in thought, beer glass held up just shy of his lips. Akinori flinched at his sharpness, though he hoped no one saw. He’d forgotten how well they all knew him.

“But yours is so unromantic compared to Akaashi’s,” said Komi. 

“Why isn't it romantic?” asked Bokuto with a frown. “Compromising is talking, and I _love_ talking to Akaashi. It’s one of my favorite things in the world.”

Last night, when Emi finally looked up at him, she said, “But I’m miserable, Akinori. I’m _miserable._ I’m so tired of riding the tide. I want it to be easy, just this once. I want to feel certain that you’re meant for me. I feel pathetic asking for that, but please say it.” 

Tonight, Akinori gave into the gnawing emptiness inside him and asked, “Why do you believe in fate, Akaashi?”

“I believe in fate because I know I chose Bokuto, but he’s convinced he chose me.”

“Like the invisible string revealing itself for a bit,” commented Sarukui, his tone deadpan. “I’m mush right now, in case you can't tell.”

Bokuto was pouting now. “Love isn’t just _one_ choice, though. It’s a series of choices,” he said. He turned to address Akaashi directly. “It’s true you went to Fukurodani because you liked me first, but I liked you back. And I confessed, even if I was leaving for Hiroshima soon. You made the choice to stay with me, even if we were gonna be long distance for a while. We made good choices over the years together.”

Akaashi smiled, though he looked unconvinced. “A series of choices that we’ve gotten all right so far? Sounds like inevitability to me.”

Bokuto laughed. He took Akaashi’s hand, brought it to his lips, and murmured “I can’t win against you in this one, baby.”

“Wait,” Akinori heard himself say again. “Bokuto, you’ve been saying that Akaashi’s your endgame since _high school._ ”

“Yeah, I have,” he replied, in a tone that implied what he was about to say was factual and obvious. “Because I’ll choose not to break up with him.” 

A round of ribbing broke out. Sarukui and Komi booed. “We _get it_ , we get it,” whined Washio. If Akinori was in a better mood, he’d make retching sounds, for old time’s sake.

“ _Wait,_ ” he said again, looking at Akaashi this time. “If you’re both so inevitable, why aren’t _you_ the easygoing one in your relationship?”

Akaashi considered the question as he sipped his sake. Then he replied, “Fate can be miserable too. I mean, wasn’t that Achilles’ whole angst in the _Iliad_?” 

Akinori looked around the bar and was relieved to meet the equally blank stares of everyone else, except for Bokuto and Akaashi, who were lost in each other, oblivious to their collective weirdness. _Gods bless them both,_ thought Akinori, _this feels straight out of high school._

At the moment, it also felt like the funniest thing in the world. He laughed, and so did Washio, Yukie, Kaori, Sarukui, and Komi. They laughed and laughed until his sides hurt and his eyes watered.

Bokuto was pouting. “Hey, hey, what’s so funny?” 

“ _Lassy_ is so, so debunked now,” said Yukie, between chortles.

“Don’t you both get tired of being in each other’s heads so much?” teased Sarukui, wiping his eyes.

While Akaashi was long immune to their teasing, Bokuto’s cheeks flushed further pink. Akinori felt his good mood leave him, seeing the color. 

It was the same shade he’d swatched on the back of his hand again and again in the Sephora in Times Square. The white lighting and white store interior helped very little in his quest to distinguish between them. He ignored his depleting data allowance over a FaceTime call, angled the front camera of his phone on the back of his hand, and asked Emi, “Are you _sure_ these are different?” 

He wondered how long it would be until a pink flush over skin would be just what it was, and not the tube of Ilia Color Haze Multi-Use Pigment in Before Today on Emi’s vanity.

Akinori visited his college campus one last time four months after graduating, with friends who were also on the volleyball team, all of them quickly ground down by the 8 to 5 monotony once they realized they’d have to keep it up for the next 40 years. He was after something—maybe the purpose he’d set for himself in Chemistry Lab B two years ago, or a flyer for a PhD program.

Chemistry Lab B was the same, the network of gas pipes running over each workspace familiar, but when he peeked in, someone else was checking if each of the valves were closed, touching each spout to feel if it was cranked all the way clockwise. He could feel each one as if they were under his fingers as he watched the routine, but it was only a memory. 

He was there again, behind the door, peeking through the small window. He could still feel Emi’s lips on the juncture between his neck and back, the warmth of her thoughtfulness, his certainty in her affection as he watched Bokuto grasp Akaashi’s hand with care and intertwine their fingers together on top of the bar.

Unprompted, he said, “Emi broke up with me last night.” It sprung from somewhere deep inside, like a confession. “She said she’d been thinking about it for a while.” 

*

The grocery store only had three kinds of baking chocolate on the shelf. A fancy one with 67% cocoa, which the minimalist packaging said were shaped into flat disks for easy melting, a cheaper one that self-identified simply as unsweetened chocolate morsels, and white chocolate. Akinori and Bokuto surveyed the slim selection, then looked at each other.

“Which one do we get?” asked Akinori, with a frown.

“The 67% one,” replied Bokuto, his brows furrowed in determination like they had been a month ago, before their final game at the InterHigh nationals. “I want the chocolate to be amazing!”

The old lady shopping for flour across the aisle who Akinori had suspected was eavesdropping turned to openly stare, her eyebrow raised. It was two days before Valentine’s day. It _was_ odd, he knew, to see two boys shopping for ingredients to make chocolate. 

Bokuto didn’t notice or care, though. He reached up to get the top shelf chocolate and tucked it under his arm. He squinted at the list they’d written on an old receipt for milk tea he found in his wallet and asked, “What else do we need?”

Konoha, as he’d done at nationals, followed his lead. “Confectioner’s sugar for the caramel, I think. And some boxes to put them in after, if they have them. You know what, let’s get a basket.” 

Bokuto and Akaashi finally, finally got together two weeks after nationals in late January, after two years’ worth of false starts. It happened over lunch break. Afterward, ten minutes before classes started, Bokuto ran through the third year corridor and yelled, “Yukie! Washio! Konoha! Sarukui! Komi! Kaori! I DID IT, I DID IT, HE SAID _YES!”_

Bokuto was slapped with a behavioral citation for making a racket, and only narrowly got out of anything worse for leading the school to an Inter High silver. Akinori won the whole 11, 150 Yen pot from their betting pool for getting the closest date. 

Yukie, their designated treasurer, handed him the pot stuffed in a rainbow Hello Kitty pencil case. She was pouting. “I can’t _believe_ them,” she groaned, watching him open the case to count his winnings. “I wish I’d bet on the long game, like you.” 

They squatted beside each other under the shade of the roofed bike racks by the school entrance, their backs pressed against its outer wall. Behind them, Akinori could hear the bikes being unlocked from their safety chains and pulled off the rack. It was still winter, so he pulled his scarf tighter against his neck to ward off the chill. 

They were always together after class because they went to the same cram school for the entrance exams, and took the train on the way. It was a 15 minute commute, and they had an hour to kill from when their classes ended until their cram school lessons. They usually hung out inside the gym where they used to practice before they officially retired from club a week ago, but that day Yukie wanted to go outside.

“It’s kind of sad in there, don’t you think?” she said. “It’s like looking at something we’re not a part of anymore.” She was the one who found the spot behind the bike racks to hide from the oddly bright afternoon sun.

Akinori watched her from the corner of his eye. She’d pushed her long brown hair onto her left shoulder until it fell like a waterfall behind her side profile. She had her eyebrows threaded to two straight lines after nationals, which he knew about because she told him in great detail. He thought they gave her a misleading doleful look, which matched well with the sour grapes pout she was wearing, coveting his money. Looking at her made his cheeks warm.

This was a new development. But he spent too much time with Bokuto Koutarou to not know it for what it was.

Aloud, he said, “For sure he’s already gonna be bugging us about Valentine’s Day tomorrow. He’d make a chocolate sculpture of Akaashi if he could.”

Yukie laughed. It sounded like music to him then. “I _hate_ Valentines,” she said. “It’s just another thing girls have to do for boys.”

Akinori, aiming for sheepish, replied, “Well, don’t give me obligation chocolates. Don’t give anyone chocolates. Nobody will mind.”

She smiled at him, her eyes kind. “No, it’s okay! It’s not you guys, really, just the expectation that gets to me. Maybe I wish a boy would confess to _me_ with chocolates, you know?”

He knew, the moment she said it. It would be another thing he’d _have_ to do, just like he had to perfect his receives by first year, or perfect his competence enough to be a starter by the end of second year. He was the sort who _did_ things, without thinking about them too hard. This instinctual something was the foundation of his friendship with Bokuto. He accepted his fate as the second most annoying person in the whole school on Valentine's Day right then.

When Bokuto jogged to catch up to him walking into school the next morning, he already had an answer prepared before his friend asked the question.

“Hey, hey, Konoha,” said Bokuto, his hands in his pockets, his tone hesitant for once. “Please, please, please help me make chocolates for Valentine’s. I want to make them perfect for Akaashi.”

“Sure,” he replied, trying to sound casual. “Maybe I’ll make some too.” 

Bokuto looked at him with an insightful gleam in his eye. He showed his genius in brief interludes, but those interludes always somehow involved peering into Akinori’s soul. Akinori met his searching gaze with silence. 

“It’s Yukie isn’t it?” asked Bokuto with a shit-eating grin. Instead of replying, Akinori kicked him in the ankles and tried to trip him.

They’d made plans to take the train to a specialty baking store farther away, but Bokuto’s calculus class extended for 12 minutes after the bell. If they still went, Konoha risked being late to cram school. They had to settle for the grocery store instead. 

Aside from the bag of 67% chocolate, they found confectioner’s sugar, and foldable boxes with lids of different prints. Bokuto chose one with owls on them, Akinori a solid light pink one. Bokuto also insisted they get ribbon, “so the boxes will look pretty, like Akaashi.” Akinori tried to deck him with the shopping basket, but he dodged. 

At checkout, Akinori ignored the pointed, neutral silence of the cashier who scanned the things they bought. Bokuto took the nondescript plastic bag home so they could make the chocolate the next day, when Akinori didn’t have cram school.

The Bokutos’ kitchen was small, but it had two counters of free space for preparation, and a gas stove with four burners. The sensible thing to do would have been for them to temper a large batch of chocolate for both of them to use. But Bokuto was insensibly in love.

“I want to make everything about Akaashi’s chocolate by myself,” he protested with a pout. 

Akinori released his routine exasperated sigh. “Help me find more pots and bowls, then,” he said. “It’s your kitchen.”

This is what Bokuto’s mom’s cookbook said: Tempered chocolate can hold its shape longer at room temperature without melting. It has a glossy finish and snap that comes from a crystalline molecular structure achieved by melting the chocolate between 55-57 °C, then lowering its temperature back to 27-28 °C. It was a miracle really that they found two candy thermometers in the counter drawers. 

They managed to assemble two makeshift double boiler setups from the pots in the cupboards, though Akinori’s upper pot was a small wok. He watched the disks of 67% chocolate melt and felt his resolve to make perfect chocolate pretty as the pictures in the cookbook steel. 

They both came out of the ordeal, somehow, with a box of homemade chocolate each.

Akinori watched the gloss on his melted chocolate as he doled it into a silicone mold of curled up cats, felt the resistance against his baking spatula as if the chocolate wanted to hold its shape against the wok right then, and felt bonedeep triumph. _This is the real InterHigh finals,_ he thought, delirious.

Bokuto’s did not turn out as well. His was only glossy in parts. He was pouting as he apportioned his chocolate into a silicone mold of halves of volleyballs. 

“Do you think they’ll set in the fridge?” he asked, desolate. 

“Don’t worry, they will,” said Akinori. “And anyway, Akaashi will love literally anything you give him.” 

Bokuto sighed with relief. Now humbled, he conceded to making only one batch of caramel to drizzle over their hardened chocolate.

All the third years showed up to school early the next morning to watch the grand gifting. It was cloudy and cold, and they grumbled about waking up early, like they hadn't shown up to morning practice for years until a month ago. They stood outside the gym huddled in their winter coats, looking conspicuous. Bokuto looked comically nervous, brows drawn down and his mouth in a pout, as he held his owl-printed box of chocolates like it was precious cargo.

Finally, Akaashi appeared, having turned from the bend of the path on the way to the gym. It took him a while to spot them, but he ran up to them when he noticed.

“What’s going on?” he asked. He was yet to change out of his uniform, but he’d already thrown the volleyball team long coat over it. 

Sarukui spoke before Bokuto could. “Bokuto has something to give you behind the gym,” he said with a suggestive wink, and pushed Bokuto towards Akaashi.

Bokuto, flustered, presented the box and said, “I made you Valentine’s chocolates! Can we talk for a bit?” Akaashi, also blushing, nodded. They walked to the back of the gym together to the musical accompaniment of six high school seniors, whooping and whistling to their backs. 

Of course they all trooped to a spot where they could spy, with a free line of sight to the back of the gym. They couldn’t hear anything, but Akaashi had tears in his eyes as he carefully undid the ribbon around the box. Then he opened the lid and seemed to gasp in delight. 

Akinori knew what was inside: Eight volleyball-shaped chocolates drizzled with strips of caramel on top. He also knew that they were imperfectly tempered, and over the phone this morning Bokuto said he was glad it was winter so they wouldn’t melt quickly outside a fridge. From their tests last night, his chocolates were soft.

Akaashi was oblivious to this, as he took one in his fingers. Akinori imagined the chocolate melting in the edges where it was held. Akaashi took one conservative bite, his eyes scrunching in pleasure. After he’d put the piece back into the box, licked his index finger and thumb clean. But he was looking at Bokuto with open, unabashed joy.

Akinori’s pulse picked up, watching them. A traitorous part of his brain articulated the emotion for him— _hope._

Aloud, he said, “They’re so happy, it’s kind of gross.”

Yukie giggled. “But doesn’t watching them make you want to be in love?” 

_Don’t even think it,_ he told himself. _Expect nothing._ He tried very hard not to think of his own box of homemade chocolates inside his bag. He resolved to tell her at lunch.

He hovered outside hers and Bokuto’s classroom once the lunch bell rang, with his bento and the box. His heart was pounding, his palms warm. 

“Konoha!” she called once she saw him, walking towards him with her own bento. He tried very hard not to attribute her excitement at seeing him to anything special, but the hope inside him was all consuming. 

As soon as they were in front of each other, she handed him something. It was a card printed to look like a bar of chocolate. 

“You inspired me to be daring this year,” she said. “I gave Megumi a Toblerone too! I was just like, you know what, it’s my last year, I should live my youth without any regrets.” 

Saena Megumi was a third year in the girls’ volleyball team, an outside hitter who could pull off terrifying angles. 

_Oh._

Trying to keep his hands steady, he opened the card. It read: _Dear Konoha — you’re an amazing, amazing friend and I will always treasure our conversations! Love, Yukie,_ in her distinct, messy handwriting. Maybe his heart snapped clean in half like perfectly tempered chocolate.

“Don’t worry,” she continued, oblivious to his heartbreak, “I’m giving everyone cards this year instead of obligation chocolate, not just you.” Then, because the universe was uncaring and sometimes cruel, she noticed his box of chocolate. “What’s that?”

“You inspired me to be daring, too,” he said. “I made chocolates with Bokuto yesterday to share with everyone. Obligation chocolates from a boy, I guess.”

She beamed at him. “That’s such a great idea! I can’t wait to taste them.”

 _I could still tell her,_ he thought, as they walked to Komi’s classroom together. He knew, though, that his moment had passed.

*

Silence fell after he finally dropped the news. But it wasn’t sharp and awkward like he’d feared. He didn’t break anything. The ensuing silence was companionable, the kind that used to blanket them in the library, when the only sound between them was the shuffling of pages and the occasional yawns. Now it was the clinking of beer glasses and the rain outside, but the blanket was as familiar as ever.

Komi spoke first. “Did she say why?”

Akinori cleared his throat and replied, “By the end, we both did a lot of saying why this and that. All we did was talk. We argued for five hours before we called it quits.”

“‘ _We_ called it quits’?” asked Kaori.

“Well, _she_ called it quits,” Akinori replied. Then he thought about it for a while and added, “Maybe I did too.”

Washio’s voice was soft when he asked, “What did you mean, she’d been thinking about it for a while?”

“She said she knew a month ago that it wouldn’t work out. She felt it in her bones.”

“What the _fuck?”_ said Yukie. She was always the first to get heated about relationship issues and Akinori appreciated her passion now. “Why didn’t she break up with you as soon as she figured it out?”

“I don’t know. I almost want to ask.”

“Don’t!” Sarukui almost yelled. “Don’t text her, don’t contact her, don’t look at her Instagram. Block her everywhere. Give me your phone.” He extended his hand as he said this, and Akinori, feeling immense appreciation, unlocked his phone and complied.

Bokuto asked, “What did you argue about?”

“Everything,” replied Akinori. It was still hard to revisit in his mind. “You know she got laid off three months ago right?”

Bokuto hmmed in affirmation. “You mentioned. Wasn’t her company downsizing or something?”

“Yeah, it’s a small publishing company that got acquired by a private equity firm. There was bad debt—you know how it goes with private equity. It’s been really weird since.”

“Wait!” said Yukie, extending her arms out to emphasize her point. Then she looked at Akaashi. “We have a mole among us.” Her loyalty was boundless.

Akinori raised a hand before Bokuto could protest. He looked at Akaashi too and asked, “This is an honest question okay. I’m not asking you anything dramatic like picking a side. But did you know?”

“No, I didn’t,” he replied, his gaze honest. “I promise I didn’t. She didn’t tell me anything.”

Yukie didn’t let up, though. Addressing Akaashi, she said, “You should walk around the block while we talk trash about Emi for a bit.”

“It’s okay, I’m not at that stage yet,” said Akinori, raising two placating hands up. “Honestly, I’m not sure how to feel, other than I miss her.” Bokuto and Yukie had a tendency to butt heads sometimes, because they were both chaotic and loyal in the exact same way.

“What made it weird?” asked Washio, always reliable to bring things back to calmer waters. “Since she got laid off, I mean.”

“Maybe this makes me sound like a narcissist, but I think she started to resent me,” replied Akinori. It was a relief to be able to articulate his mess of emotions out loud. “She’s been job hunting for three months now with no offers yet. I got the feeling that she wanted me to help, but when I tried to help, she got mad. I was always helping too much, or not enough.”

Akaashi, his tone neutral, said, “I mean finding a job really is a slog.”

“I know it is,” said Akinori on instinct. But the counterpoint coming from a longtime friend gave him pause. He started to think out loud. “I mean, I guess I don’t, not really. She told me yesterday I don’t understand her, since I’ve had it easy. I know I have. I know it’s rare to get a job offer from a place you interned in, and have a job waiting before grad. And to still have that job now. But I never figured out what she wanted from me.”

Sarukui handed him back his phone. Akinori scrolled to his contacts and couldn’t find Emi’s number anymore. 

Kaori gently prodded, “But you said you talked for _hours.”_

Akinori sighed. “Okay, I know what she wanted,” he admitted. “She said she wanted assurance that I love her. I didn’t know that I wasn’t assuring her. I told her I loved her maybe fifty times last night. Why didn’t she believe me?”

“But she said she wanted to break up since _a month_ ago?” asked Yukie, still on her quest to cross-examine Emi by proxy.

Akinori could only give her a weak smile. “I wish I knew what she meant. I want to know, but I don’t think I ever will.”

“Do you think you’ll talk to her again?” asked Komi.

“Last night felt so _comprehensive._ I think it’s really over. And where did talking get us, really?”

Silence fell among them once more, but this time everyone felt farther away, like they’d retreated into their own elsewheres. 

Komi was the one who broke it. “Well, it’s water under the bridge now. You should focus on you.”

 _Where do I begin, really?_ Akinori thought. _Where did the me before I met her go?_

He took a long, long sip of sake and said, “This is so lame, but she used to text me every morning a few minutes before my alarm. And that would wake me up instead of the iPhone siren. This morning I heard the siren again after so long. I just stared at my ceiling for a while. _What now,_ you know?”

“I understand that so hard,” said Yukie, her tone distant. It seemed she’d ran out of heat against Emi. “It’s been a year since Megumi and I broke up, and I still remember things about her. She loves that actor.” She pointed to the smiling TV actor on the tissue holder. Akinori still couldn’t think of who he was.

“I know the feeling too,” said Washio. “It’s asking yourself, _When will I ever be free?”_

Sarukui, who’d been impersonal all night, said, “Isn’t that the worst part? I just know these things about someone, and it’s useless information now. Oh, so he likes pineapples? Who cares. I shouldn’t care anymore, either.”

Yukie smiled at him kindly and said, “I read on _Lassy_ that it takes half of how long you were together to get over someone.” She paused to bottoms up her glass of beer, still two-thirds full. Then she continued, “I hope it isn’t true, but I think it is. It’s been a year, and it’s better, but I’m not sure if I’m over it. So I need another two?”

Yuki and Saena Megumi stayed together for six years, through college and after. Akinori always thought it was a good run for the high school couple that sprung out of his first unrequited love. He never told Yukie though, and neither did Bokuto.

“When do I even know that I’m over it?” he asked. 

Kaori, her face flushed from drinking sake all night, replied, “Last week I passed Hayato on the street on the way to a meeting in Koto. But I didn’t notice it was him. I only turned to look because he was wearing wingtip shoes that looked terrible. Nothing about him caught my eye. It was all the shoes. _That’s_ freedom, I think. That’s being over it.”

“I can’t imagine it,” said Akinori. “I keep going back to her staying with me for a month even if she was sure it’d be over. Why did she stay? Was she just tolerating me the whole time?”

“I wondered the same,” said Washio, sounding miserable. “Ai told me she didn’t love me anymore because she realized we weren’t compatible and I was just… _since when?_ So we weren’t compatible the whole time?”

“Maybe that’s what Emi felt with me. We slipped apart in the three months without even noticing. She told me she wanted love to feel _easy.”_

The silence returned. Akinori wondered where they all were in their elsewheres, what memories they were revisiting in their minds. He glanced at Bokuto, who had deflated with a slouch that rivaled his pout. It had been years since he’d seen a full-on emo mode. That it returned for _him_ made him oddly happy.

“Hey, don’t look so sad, ace,” he said, addressing Bokuto. “This is normal, I think. It’s really just like this for everyone else. It’s not like Emi was the great love of my life, you know?”

He flinched at his own words right after he said them out loud. It felt like the epiphany Emi had reached last night, but he couldn’t. “I think she wanted me to tell her she was.” 

Bokuto only deflated further. Akinori looked around the bar again and found everyone else smiling now, even Akaashi.

“Yeah, don’t be sad!” said Sarukui, jovial again from being back on familiar ground. “Akaashi’s right beside you. You’re literally holding hands right now!”

“It’s okay, ace!” cooed Kaori. “ _You’re_ sure about the great love of your life, right?”

They all took turns mollifying Bokuto until he was at least smiling again. Akaashi gave him a kiss on the cheek. The return to old habits made all of them laugh, including Bokuto.

When the blanket of silence returned, Yukie, addressing no one in particular, said, “It’s nice isn’t it? To remember once in a while that most of us walking this earth are miserable.” 

  
  


When they exited the izakaya, the rain had stopped. It was past 11 PM. Most of the group was going to walk to the station. Their umbrellas were folded, but the street was still soaking with puddles.

“I was gonna take a cab again, but it stopped raining,” said Komi, sounding disappointed.

Bokuto and Akaashi were planning on walking back to their condo. They were all exchanging their hugs and goodbyes outside when Akinori remembered something.

“Hey, you two,” he said. “At the start of the night, Bokuto said you both have news to share. What is it? You never said.”

They looked at each other, as if exchanging messages telepathically.

“If you don’t tell us now, it’ll take another three months before we can meet up,” said Washio.

Bokuto and Akaashi, still looking at each other, both nodded. Then Akaashi turned to address them all and said, “We’re getting married.” He was beaming as he said it.

A minor racket erupted again, but this time with congratulations and demands for details. They all talked over each other.

“Who asked who?”

“Akaashi asked me.”

“Is there a ring?”

“We still don’t know if we want engagement rings, to be honest.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“No details on that yet, either. I only asked last Monday.”

“Have you told your parents?”

“Of course!”

“Please don’t make me wear warm colors for the wedding.”

“No problem.”

Akinori, watching the furor but not participating, felt his chest wound throb again, the way deep wounds that scar feel when they began to heal. Somehow the acknowledgement that there was an _after_ to everything felt bittersweet. 

When he finally spoke, he said, “I’m sorry I hijacked your engagement party with sad breakup talk.” 

“No, it’s okay,” said Bokuto, sincere. “I’m sorry we’re so happy right now.” Akinori wanted to deck him with a shopping basket again.

Their group finally dispersed after 10 more minutes of congratulations. Kobayashi-san the proprietress poked her head out and reminded them that some stations closed at midnight, so it’s best they head home. They trooped to the station, feeling like chastised high schoolers again. Bokuto and Akaashi stayed back, as they always did, to see them off at least until they disappeared at the intersection.

Yukie and Komi were talking about the actor on the tissue holder, whoever he was. They were near the main road, so Akinori looked back to see if Bokuto and Akaashi were still standing in front of the izakaya.

They were, but they weren’t looking at their friends anymore. They were crouched over together in front of a large puddle, watching a tortoise slowly splash its way across. Akinori could only see it because it was somehow right under a streetlamp. It was small, maybe only the size of his open hand. It craned its neck and plodded forward with slow steps. Bokuto and Akaashi were gazing at it intently, both their expressions soft. Then Bokuto leaned to Akaashi and whispered something to him.

Akinori imagined that later, when they got home, they’d talk about how moving it was to see a lost creature still trying to make its way in the world. It would be one of the details in Akaashi’s day that Bokuto would choose to intently listen to. 

He wondered what invisible thing only they saw as they stood there on the edge of a puddle in a narrow Tokyo street. They were wrapped in a private silence, shielded from the clatters of businesses along the street pulling down their shutters. He wondered if he’d ever find someone to share infinity with the same way.

 _It was nice too,_ he thought, _to remember some people walking this earth are happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this. Comments and kudos appreciated. <3 You can talk to me about HQ on [twitter](https://twitter.com/alliseeispink), if you want.
> 
> Thanks as always to ao3 user [entremelement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement) for beta-ing this.
> 
> NOTES:  
> 1\. Title and epigraph are both from the poem [On World-Making](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/147635/on-world-making) by Nomi Stone.  
> 2\. I crowdsourced Fukurodani's answers to the question 'what is love?' on twitter. Read everyone's interesting answers on the main thread is [here](https://twitter.com/alliseeispink/status/1294607788723724289).  
> * Yukie's answer is from [Nadh](https://twitter.com/tinysriasih/status/1294610570222514176?s=20) / ao3 user [pissedofsandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich).  
> * Kaori's answer is from [Isla](https://twitter.com/tobiotokki/status/1294617436554108928?s=20).  
> * Konoha's answer during the night out is from [Christine](https://twitter.com/bokkuatsu/status/1294609880683180032?s=20) / ao3 user [tsukkiimoto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukkiimoto).  
> * Washio's answer was inspired by [Meg's](https://twitter.com/atsumumyaa/status/1294611087405527041?s=20) / ao3 user [stormhund](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormhund).  
> * Bokuto's answer is from [royal_enchanter](https://twitter.com/royal_enchanter/status/1294617156617777153?s=20).  
> 3\. I learned how to temper chocolate from [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXnlVlkkkxM) by Binging with Babish and Sohla El-Waylly.
> 
> If you're interested, I tweeted about what inspired this fic and the themes I wanted to tackle [here](https://twitter.com/alliseeispink/status/1298664633931165696?s=20).


	2. coda: love in the city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto and Akaashi walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is an extra coda from Bokuto's POV right after the events of the main fic. There are references to the events in [wisdom (perception) check](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25729189) too. It works as a flash fiction standalone too though.

The walk from the izakaya to home took 25 minutes, and it was a drag when feeling drunk and lazy after glass after glass of peach beer, but was too close to call a cab over. Koutarou suffered the walk, Akaashi beside him, even if it started drizzling as soon as they stepped out of the narrow street and onto the main road. 

When it did, Akaashi opened the brand new transparent combini umbrella, pulled Koutarou close beside him by his hand, and pressed the handle to his palm. His folding umbrella dangled from his wrist, still dripping.

“You’re taller,” he said. 

Of course Koutarou wrapped his fingers around the handle and held the umbrella over their heads. He scooted a bit, so Akaashi could get more shade from the rain. A damp shoulder was nothing to him, not when the bright lights from the karaoke bar they were passing by cast a fuchsia glow over Akaashi’s face. The light passed through the umbrella’s transparent canopy and threw a shadow of one of its ribs right over his cheek. 

“Like what you see?” asked Akaashi, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. He was still facing the road ahead, but Koutarou knew he was smiling.

“Yep,” replied Koutarou. “I _love_ what I see.” 

His drunken affliction was earnestness that was even more pronounced than it was when he was sober. Everything he loved, he loved a million times more. And he loved Akaashi _a lot._

Akaashi’s eyes darted away from him immediately, his flush from the beer and sake deepening. But he nudged his shoulder to Koutarou’s bicep. This restraint told Koutarou that the first phase of Akaashi’s drunkenness, when he was affectionate and clingy, had passed. Maybe it passed while their friends doted on their engagement. The next phase was somber Akaashi. 

Koutarou nudged back.

They grew quiet. 

Maybe it was the rain or that the trains were closing soon, but the pedestrians they passed were sparse. Koutarou could count them with one hand. 

An old man in a faded denim jacket was loitering under the awning of a closed general store, a lit cigarette between his fingers billowing a winding line of smoke. A woman was walking at an idle pace with her stockinged feet in rubber slides, shed high heels dangling from two fingers of one hand, a polkadot umbrella held over her head in the other. A man in a work shirt and tie ran out of a combini, the small plastic bag he was clutching taking the outline of a stout single head of Chinese cabbage. A cyclist on a professional road bike in a bright yellow high visibility safety vest whizzed past Koutarou’s left, on the street. 

In high school, before they started dating, before Koutarou could name the singular thrill he felt whenever he was close to Akaashi, he always called dibs so they could sit beside each other in the team bus. When the traffic was bad and the team chatter gave way to exhausted rest, they leaned together on the window and made up stories about the people passing through their lives. 

A younger Akaashi had his puffed winter coat in the Fukurodani colors open and draped over him like a blanket, his head rested against the window because Koutrou always let him have that seat. They’d been making up a story about the family of four in the sedan right beside the bus while they were stopped at a packed intersection when Akaashi paused. 

“You know,” he said, his voice quiet, “Shakespeare said all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” 

He blushed right after and looked as if he wanted to apologize.

“No, hey, go on,” Koutarou had broached then. “‘Kaashi, I wanna hear.”

“I guess,” replied Akaashi, hesitant, “We’re all just starring in the play of our lives, and everyone else in the world is an extra. Like for that family in the car, we’re just here to fill the road, you know?”

He still remembered feeling the ghost of hurt then as he sat where he was to fill the seat beside Akaashi.

“Look,” Koutarou said instead, pressing his finger against the glass to point at a small brown dot hopping in place on the sidewalk. “What about that little guy? Are _we_ all just extras in the play of its life?”

It was a small bird, its body stout and brown, its small black feathered head pushed back against its body so it looked like a circle with little legs. Hundreds like it could be seen all over the city, little circles bobbing around near parks. In the light, the little bird’s underside had yellow green feathers, yellow like a tennis ball, stark against its brown body.

Koutarou could tell he said the right thing because Akaashi laughed softly.

He was smiling when he said, “Yes, Bokuto-san. We’re all just set pieces for that bird. All 13 million of us, the whole city.”

Tonight, the city was silent. Koutarou inhaled deeply, taking in the night chill, the white glow of the streetlights, the empty sidewalk, the growing spot of damp on his shoulder, the pattering soft of raindrops against the umbrella.

Koutarou _loved_ Tokyo. Even after existing in it for two decades, it still had secrets to share. 

He found a wheezing Street Fighter I arcade machine stuffed at the back of a sporting goods store with Hinata near their training facility in Koto last week. A year ago, hopelessly lost, he stumbled across a deserted shop that sold the best milk tea in the world. It was wedged at the very end of a subterranean mall and blared English folk songs from a speaker pointing outside, to the indifferent throng walking past to cross between two subway stations. When he was four, he wandered out of his mother’s grasp and into a deserted Buddhist cemetery off the side of an idyllic neighborhood, everything around him hermetically soundless but for the wind rustling long-wilted flowers placed in front of the gravestones. The memory would scare him into behaving for the years that came.

He grew up here, fell in love with volleyball here, his smiling face plastered on billboards for high end watches and snack foods here. He fell in love with Akaashi here.

Tonight, another secret—a tortoise, smaller than his outstretched hand, plodding its way across a puddle along a sidestreet, kicking up the water as it went.

He turned to Akaashi and asked, “Do you think we’re just set pieces in that tortoise’s life?”

Akaashi blinked at his question for half a beat. Then he said, “Maybe. Maybe he saw us looking at him today and spared us only one thought.”

“What thought, do you think?”

“He looked at us humans with our trite, short lives and thought, _I will outlive you all.”_

Koutarou laughed, the helpless, reluctant laugh that comes from a worn private joke, nonsensical to anyone else, its corners fraying from years of handling.

Beside him, Akaashi smiled at his enthusiasm, his eyes soft. They stalled right in the middle of the road, pressed together under the umbrella, just looking at each other. Because the city was empty, and no one would bump into them. Because they could.

“I _want_ so badly,” said Akaashi, looking right into Koutarou’s eyes. “I want so badly to make you laugh until we both have gray hair.”

Koutarou smiled. “I already have gray hair. You’ll just have to catch up with me.”

Akaashi gave a half-hearted smirk at his joke. Koutarou knew he was thinking about Konoha and Emi.

Akaashi was brave about real things, things he could see—drafts to edit, words to put beside each other, deadlines to chase. It was the things he couldn’t see that scared him, the vast uncertainty of the unfolding years of their lives ahead. 

But Koutarou was fearless now. So he said, “You should tell me straight away.”

Akaashi tilted his head to the side, confused. “Tell you what?”

“If you’ve fallen out of love with me. Don't leave me on the shelf for a month, like Konoha was.”

Akaashi’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. _“What?_ Kou, I just asked you to marry me. I’m not falling out of love with you.” 

“I know,” replied Koutarou, his tone reassuring. “I won't fall out of love with you too. But that's what you're worried about, right?”

The indignance drained from Akaashi’s face and he looked away, sheepish. “I am,” he said softly. “Forever is such a long time.”

“It is,” conceded Koutarou, “But that's why you should tell me immediately if you do, at any point during forever. So I have a fair chance at winning you back.”

Akaashi’s cheeks colored. He pressed his lips together, fighting back a smile. It was hard to choose, but maybe _this_ , the ‘you said something really corny but I secretly love it’ smile, was Koutarou’s favorite expression on him. 

He looked up at Koutarou again and said, “Do you know you sound like a character in a drama sometimes?”

Koutarou laughed. “Oh, me? _I_ sound like a character in a drama, 'I love you an incomprehensible amount'-san?”

“Koutarou,” said Akaashi, reaching up to hold his nape, “Shut up.” 

He nudged Koutarou down by the nape for a kiss. 

Maybe someone was looking at them from afar too, someone glancing out the window to see two men kissing under an umbrella in the rain, one in a long boxy coat and Chelsea boots, the other in a sports jacket and leather sneakers, oblivious to everything around them. 

It didn’t matter. Tonight, the city was theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this! Kudos and comments are appreciated. I have an [HQ twt](https://twitter.com/alliseeispink) and a [CC](https://curiouscat.qa/alliseeispink) in the off chance that's information of interest to you.
> 
> Thanks as always to [entremelement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement) who beta'd this.
> 
> NOTES:  
> 1\. Bokuto and Akaashi saw a [Black-faced Bunting](https://ebird.org/species/blfbun1) in the bus.


End file.
